 Rejected by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. She says she's very sorry as she sees you to the gate. You calmly say goodbye to her while standing off a yard. Then you lift your hat and leave her, walking mighty stiff and straight, but your hit, old man, hit hard. In your brain the words are burning of the answer that she gave, as you turn the nearest corner and you stagger just a bit, but you pull yourself together for a man's strong heart is brave. When it's hit, old man, hard hit. You might try to drown the sorrow, but this drink has no effect. You cannot stand the barmaid with her coarse and vulgar wit, and so you seek the street again and start for home direct when your hit, old man, hard hit. You see the face of her you lost, the pity in her smile. Ah, she is to the barmaid as a snow to chimney grit. You're a better man and no blur in your sorrow for a while. When you're hit, old man, hard hit. And arriving at your lodgings with a face of deepest gloom, you shun the other borders and your manly brow you knit. You take a light and go upstairs directly to your room, but the whole house snows your hit. You clutch the scarf and collar and you tear them from your throat. You rip your waistcoat open like a fellow in a fit, and you fling them in a corner with the mage to order coat. When you're hit, old man, hard hit. You throw yourself despairing on your narrow little bed, or pace the room till someone starts with skit, cat, skit. And then lie blindly staring at the plaster overhead. You are hit, old man, hard hit. It's doubtful whether vanity or love has suffered worst, so neatly in our nature are those feelings internet. Your heart keeps swelling up so bad you wish that it would burst. When you're hit, old man, hard hit. You think and think and think and think till you go mad almost. Across your sight the specters of the bygone seem to flit. The very girl herself seems dead and comes back as a ghost. When you're hit, like this, hard hit. You know that it's all over. You're an older man by years, in the future not a twinkle, in your black sky not a split. Ah, you'll think as well that women have the privilege of tears. When you're hit, old man, hard hit. You long and hope for nothing but the rest that sleep can bring. And you find that in the mornings things have brightened up a bit, but you're dull for many evenings with a cracked heart in a sling. When you're hit, old man, hard hit. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O'Hara JP by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. James Patrick O'Hara, the Justice of Peace. He bossed the PM and he bossed the police, a parent, a deacon, a landlord was he, a townsman of weight was O'Hara JP. He gave out the prizes, foundation stones laid, he's shown when the governor's visit was paid, and twice re-elected as mayor was he. The flies couldn't roost on O'Hara JP. A sandian fly of the axe and the saw was charged with a breach of the licensing law. He sold after hours whilst talking to free on matters concerning O'Hara JP. And each contradicted the next witness flat concerning back parlours, side doors and all that. It was very conflicting, as all must agree. You'd better take care, said O'Hara JP. But baby the barmaid her evidence gave, a poor timid darling who tried to be brave. Now don't be afraid, if it's frightened ye be. Speak out, my good girl, said O'Hara JP. Her hair was so golden, her eyes were so blue, her face was so fair, and her words seemed so true. So green in the ways of sweet woman was he, that she jolted the heart of O'Hara JP. He turned to the other grave justice of peace, and whispered, you can't always trust the police. I'll visit the premises during the day, and see for myself, said O'Hara JP. Caste postponed. Twas early next morning or late the same night, twas early next morning we think would be right, and sounds that be tokened, a breach of the law, escaped through the cracks of the axe and of the saw, and principal Dougherty out in the street met constable Clancy a bit off his beat. He took him with finger and thumb by the ear, and led him around to a lane in the rear. He pointed a blind where strange shadows were seen, while pantomime hinting of revels within, will drop on and fly if you'll listen to me, and prove we are right to O'Hara JP. But Clancy was up to the lay of the land, he cautiously shaded his mouth with his hand. Which man howled you're wished, or it's ruined will be, it's the justice himself, it's O'Hara JP. They hished and they wished, and turned themselves round, and got themselves off like two cats on which ground, agreeing to be on their honor as men, a deaf, dumb, and blind institution just then. Inside on a sofa, two barmaids between, with one on his knee was a gentleman's scene, and any chance I had the keyhole could see, and less than a wink twas O'Hara JP. The first in the chorus of songs that were sung, the loudest that laughed at the jokes that were sprung, the guest of the evening, the soul of the spree, the daddy of all was O'Hara JP. And hard cases chuckled, and hard cases said, that baby and Alice conveyed him to bed, and subsequent storms it was painful to see, those hard cases sighed with the sinful JP. Next day in the court when the case came in sight, O'Hara declared he was satisfied quite, the case was dismissed, it was destined to be the final you case of O'Hara JP. The law and religion came down on him first, the Christian was hard but his wife was the worst, half-ruined and half-driven crazy was he, it made an old man of O'Hara JP. Now young men who come from the bush do you hear, who knew not the power of barmaids and beer, don't see for yourself from temptations dear free, remember the fall of O'Hara JP. Bill and Jim fall out by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. Bill and Jim are mates no longer, they would scorn the name of mate, those two Bushmen hate each other with a soul consuming hate, yet erstwhile they were as brothers should be though they never will, there were mates to one another half-so-true as Jim and Bill, Bill was one of those who have to argue every day or die though of course he swore it was Jim who always itched to argue fine, they would on most abstract subjects contradict each other flat, and at times in lurid language they were mates in spite of that. Bill believed the Bible story read the origin of him, he was sober, he was steady, he was orthodox while Jim, who we grieve to state was always getting into drunken scrapes, held that man degenerated from degenerated apes. Bill was British to the backbone, he was loyal through and through. Jim declared that Bluker's fortunes won the fight at Waterloo, and he hoped the coloured races would in time wipe out the white, and it's rather strained their mateship, but it didn't burst it quite. They battled round in Maryland, they saw it through and through, and argued on the Rada what it was and how it grew, Bill believed the vine grew downward, Jim declared that it grew up, yet they always shared their fortunes to the final bite and sup, night after night they argued how the kangaroo was born and each one held the other stupid theories in scorn. Bill believed it was born inside, Jim declared it was born out, each as to his own opinions never had the slightest doubt, they left the earth to argue and they went among the stars. Recondition's atmospheric, Bill believed the hair of Mars was tooth and for human beings to exist in mortal states. Jim declared it was too thick, if anything, yet they were mates. Bill for free trade, Jim Protection argued as to which was best, for the welfare of the workers and their mateship stood the test, they argued over what they meant and didn't mean at all, and what they said and didn't, and were mates in spite of all. Till one night the two together tried to light a fire in camp, when they had a leaky billy and the wood was scarce and damp, and no matter let the moral be distinctly understood, one alone should tend the fire while the other brings the wood. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Peru, by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Schelp. It was a week from Christmas time, as near as I remember, and half a year since in the rear we'd left the Darling Timber. The track was hot and more than drear, the long day seemed forever, but now we knew that we were near our camp, the Peru River, with blighted eyes and blistered feet with stomachs out of order, half mad with flies and dust and heat we'd crossed the Queensland border. I longed to hear a stream go by and see the circles quiver. I longed to lay me down and die that night on Peru River. To said the land at West is grand, I do not care who does it. It isn't even decent scrub, nor yet an honest desert. It's plagued with flies and broiling hot a curse is on it ever. I really think that God forgot the country round that river. My mate, a native of the land, in fiery speech and vulgar, condemned the flies and cursed the sand and doubly damned the molga. He peered ahead, he peered about, a bushman he and clever. Now mind you, keep a sharp look out, we must be near the river. The nose bags heavy on each chest, God bless one kindly squatter. With great full weight our hearts they pressed, we only wanted water. The sun was setting in the west, in colour like a liver. We'd fondly hoped to camp and rest that night on Peru River. A cloud was on my mate's broad brow, and once I heard him mutter. I'd like to see the darling now, God bless the grand old gutter. And now and then he stopped and said in tones that made me shiver. It cannot well be on ahead, I think we've crossed the river. But soon we saw a strip of ground that crossed the track we followed. No bearer than the surface round, but just a little hallowed. His brows assumed a thoughtful frown, the speech he did deliver. I wonder if we'd best go down or up the blessed river. But where, said I, the blooming stream, and he replied, were at it. I stood a while as in a dream. Great Scott, I cried, is that it? Why, that is some old bridal track, he chuckled, well I never. It's nearly time you came out back, this is the Peru River. No place to camp, no spot of damp, no moisture to be seen there, if air there was it left no sign that it had ever been there, but air the mourn with heart and soul we'd cause to thank the giver. We found a muddy waterhole some ten miles down the river. End of recording, this poem is in the public domain. The Green Hand Rouseabout by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. Call this hot, I beg your pardon, hot you don't know what it means. What's that waiter, lamb or mutton? Thank you, mine is beef and greens. Bread and butter while I'm waiting. Milk? Oh yes, a bucketful. I'm Justin from West the Darling, picking up and rolling wool. Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, foiled and fat. Bread or brownie tea or coffee, two hours graft in front of that. Legs of mutton boiled for dinner, mutton greasy warm for tea. Mutton curried, gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me. Breakfast curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice, and you sicken at the color and the smell of curried rice, all day long with living mutton, bits and belly wool and fleece, blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirts and trousers stiff with grease, till you long for sight of verder, cabbage plots and water clear, and you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer. Dusty patch and baking molga, glaring iron, hot and shed, feel and smell of rain forgotten, water scarce and feed grass dead, hot and suffocating sunrise, all pervading, sheep yard smell, stiff and aching green hand stretches, slushy rings the bollock bell, pint of tea and hunk of brownie, sinners string towards the shed, great black greasy crows round carcass screen behind of dust cloud red, engine whistles, go it, tigers, and the agony begins, picking up for seven devils out of Hades for my sins, picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell, sell their souls to get to the bell sheep, half a dozen Christs they'd sell, day grows hot as where they come from, too damned hot for men or brutes, roof of corrugated iron, six foot six above the chutes, whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams, blasphemy of five and forty, prickly heat and stink of rams, barkoo leaves his pen door open and the sheep come bucking out, barkoo blasts the rouse about, injury with insult added, trial of our cursing powers, cursed and cursing back enough to dam a dozen worlds like ours, take my combs down to the grinder, will ya, seen my cattle pop, there's a sheep fell down in my chute, just jump down and pick it up, give the office when the boss comes, catch that gory sheep old man, count the sheep in my pen, will ya, fetch my combs back one year can, one year get a chanceled feller, fetch my pipe the cook'll show your, and I'll let your have a cut, sheerer yells for tartan's needle, ringer's roaring like a bull, wool away you son of angels, wear the house the foundling wool, pound a week and station prices, mustn't kick against the pricks, seven weeks of lurid mateship, ruined soul and four pounds six, what's that waiter, me stuffed mutton, look here waiter to be brief, I said beef you bloodstained villain, beef, moo, cow, roast bullock, beef, and if poem this recording is in the public domain. The Man From Waterloo by Henry Lawson, read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. With kind regards to Banjo. It was The Man From Waterloo when work in town was slack, who took the track as Bushman do and humped his swag out back. He tramped for months without a bob, for most the sheds were full, until at last he got a job at picking up the wool. He found the work was rather tough, but swore to see it through, for he was made of sterling stuff, the Man From Waterloo. The first remark was like a stab that fell his ear upon. It was there's another something scab the boss has taken on. They couldn't let the townee be, they sneered like anything, they'd mock him when he'd sound the G and words that end in ing. There came a man from ironbark, and at the shed he shore. He scoffed his victuals like a shark, and like a fiend he swore. He'd shorn his flowing beard that day, he found it hard to reap, because it was hot and in the way, while he was shearing sheep. He loaded fork and grimy halt, was poised his jaws moved fast, impatient till his throat could bolt, the mouthful taken last. He couldn't stand a something tough, much less a jackaroo, and swore to take the trimmings off the man from Waterloo. The townee saw he must be up, or else be underneath, and so one day before the mall he dared to clean his teeth. The men came running from the shed and shouted, here's a lark, it's gone to clean its tooties, said the man from ironbark. His feeble joke was much enjoyed, he sneered as bullies do, in a scrubbing brush he guide the man from Waterloo. The jackaroo made no remark, but peeled and waded in, and soon the man from ironbark had three teeth less to grin. And when they knew that he could fight they swore to see him through, because they saw that he was right, the man from Waterloo. Now in a shop in Sydney near the bottle on the shelf, the tale is told with trimmings by the jackaroo himself. Still he said, they wouldn't let me be, they set the bully of the shed to take it out of me. The dirt was on him like a sheath, he seldom washed his fizz, he sneered because they cleaned my teeth, I guess I dusted his. I treated them as they deserved, I signed on one or two, they won't forget me soon observed the man from Waterloo. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. St. Peter by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Schelp. Now I think there is a likeness to St. Peter's life and mind, for he did a lot of tramping long ago in Palestine. He was union when the workers first began to organize, and I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of paradise. When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker bags, and I'm glad he's heaven's picket explaining things, and he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whiteley King's. He denied the Saviour's union which was weak of him no doubt, but perhaps his feet was blistered and his boots had given out. And the bitter storm was Russian on the bark and on the slabs, and a cheerful fire was blazing and the hut was full of scabs. When I reach the great head station which is somewhere off the track, I won't want to talk with angels who have never been out back. I'll bother me with offers of a banjo meanwhile, and a pair of wings to fly with when I only want a spell. I'll just ask for old St. Peter and I think when he appears I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years. I've been on the track I'll tell him and I done the best I could until understand me better than the other angels would. He won't try to get a chorus out of lungs that's worn to rags, or to graft the wings on shoulders that is stiff flags but will rest above the station where the work bell never rings till they blow the final trumpet and the great judge sees to things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Stranger's Friend by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp. The strangest things and the maddest things that a man can do or say to the chaps and fellers and coves out back are matters of every day. Maybe on account of the lives they lead or the life that their hearts discard but never a fool can be too mad or a heart case be too hard. I met him in Bourke in the Union days which with we have not to do. Their creed was narrow their methods crude but they stuck to the cause like glue. He came into town from the lost Solrun for his grim half-yearly bend and because of a curious hobby he had he was known as the Stranger's Friend. It is true to the region of adjectives when I say that the spree was grim for to go on the spree was a sacred right or a heathen right to him to shout for the travellers passing through to the land where the lost soul bakes till they all seemed devils of different breeds and his pockets were filled with snakes in the joyful mood in the solemn mood in his cynical stages too in the modeling stage in the fighting stage with his blue. From the joyful hour when his spree commenced right through to the awful end he never lost grip of his fixed ID that he was the Stranger's Friend. The feller as knows he can battle around for his bloomin self he'd say I don't give a curse for the blanks I know send the heart up bloke this way send the stranger round and I'll see him through and even as the Bushmen spoke the chaps and fellers would tip the wink and it wasn't only a bushman's bluff to the fame of the friend they scored for he'd shout the stranger a suit of clothes and he'd pay for the stranger's board the worst of it was that he'd sky-tall night on the edge of the stranger's bunk and never got helplessly drunk himself till he'd got the stranger drunk and the chaps and the fellers would speculate by way of a ghastly joke as to who'd be caught by the Jim Jams first the friend or the heart up bloke and the Joker would say that there wasn't a doubt as to who'd be damned in the end when the devil got hold of a heart up bloke in the shape of the stranger's friend it mattered not to the stranger's friend what the rest might say or think he always held that the heart up state was due to the curse of drink to the evils of cards and of company but a young cove's built that way and I was a bloomin fool me self when I started out he'd say at the end of the spree in clean white moles clean shaven and cool as ice he'd give the stranger a bob or two and some straight out back advice then he'd tramp away for the lost soul run where the hot dust rose like smoke having done his duty to all mankind where he'd stuck to a heart up bloke he'll say to his a song of salt perhaps but the song of a salt is true I have battled myself and you know you chaps what a man in the bush goes through let us hope when the last of his sprees is past and his checks and his strength are done that amongst the sober and thrifty mates the stranger's friend has won end of poem this recording is in the public domain The God Forgotten Election by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Josh Kibbe Pat McDermar brought the tidings to the town of God Forgotten there are lively days before you common parliaments dissolved and the boys were all excited for the state of course was rotten and in subsequent elections God Forgotten was involved there was little there to live for save and drinking beer and eating but we rose on this occasion here the news appeared in print for the boys of God Forgotten at a wild uproarious meeting nominated Billy Blazes for the common parliament other towns had other favorites but the day before the battle Bushman flocked to God Forgotten and the distant sheds were still and the neglected mobs of cattle went to strain down the river at their sweet bucolic will William Spouter stood for free trade and his votes were split by noton he had influence behind him and he also had the tin but across the lonely flatlands came the cry of God Forgotten vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in Pat McDermar said you scammers please to shut your ugly faces lend your dirty ears a moment while I give you all a hint keep you sober till tomorrow and record your vote for Blazes I want to send a ringer to the common parliament as a young and growing township God Forgotten's been neglected and if we'd be represented now's the moment to begin have the local towns encouraged local industries protected vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in I don't say the William Blazes is a perfect out and outer I don't say he have the Larnan for he never had the luck I don't say he have the logic or the gift of Gablack Spouter I don't say he have the practice but I say he have the pluck the country's gone to ruin and the governments are rotten but he'll save the public credit and protect the public tin to the everlasting glory of the name of God Forgotten vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in Pat McDermar went on the warpath and he worked like salts and sinna for he organized committees full of energy and push and those wild committees riding through the whiskey fed Gehenna routed out astonished voters from their humpies in the bush everything on wheels was rented and half sober drunks were shot in with a McDermar to the driver if you want to save your skin never stopped to watch your whistles drive like hell to God Forgotten make the villains plump for Blazes in the land they're living in half the local long departed for the purpose resurrected plumped for Blazes and protection in the country where they died so he topped the pole by 60 and when Blazes was elected there was victory and triumph on the God Forgotten side then the boys got up a banquet and our chairman Pat McDermar was next day discovered sleeping in the local baker's bin all the dough had risen round him but we heard a smothered murmur vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in now the great Sir William Blazes lives in London across the waters and they say his city mansion is the swellest in West End but I very often wonder if his Tony sons and daughters ever heard of Billy Blazes who was once the people's friend does his biased memory linger around the wild electioneering when the men of God Forgotten stuck to him through thick and thin ever in his dreaming hear the cry above the cheering vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in ah the bush was grand in those days and the western boys were daisies and their scheming and their dodging would outdo the wildest print still my recollection lingers around the time when Billy Blazes was returned by God Forgotten to the common parliament still I keep a sign of canvas it was a mate of mine that made it and its paint is cracked and powdered and its threads are barren thin you can read in letters faded vote for Blazes and protection in the land you're living in End of poem this recording is in the public domain The Bosses Boots by Henry Lawson redvillabybox.org by algae pug the shearers squint along the pens they squint along the chutes the squareers squint along the board to catch the bosses boots they have no time to straighten up they have no time to stare but when the boss is looking on they like to be aware the rouser has no soul to save condemn the rouser about and sling him in and rip him through and get the bell sheep out and skim it by the tips at times or take it with the roots but pink and nice and pretty when you see the bosses boots the shearing super sprained his foot as bosses sometimes do and wore until the shed cut out one side spring and one shoe and though he changed his pants at times some worn out and some neat no tiger there could possibly mistake the bosses feet the boss affected larger boots than many western men and Jim the ringer swore the shoe was half as big again and tigers might have heard the boss here any harm was done for when he passed it was a sort of dot and carry one but now there comes a picker up who sprained his ankle too and limping round the shed he found the bosses cast off shoe he went to work all legs and arms as green had rousers will and never dreamt of bosses boots much less of bogan bill he sons of sin tramp and shear in hot and dusty scrubs just keep away from heading them and keep away from pubs and keep away from handicaps or so your sugar scoots and you may own a station yet and wear the bosses boots and bogan by his mate was heard to mutter through his hair the boss has got a rat today he's bucking everywhere he's training for a bike I think the way he comes and scoots he's like a bloomin cat on mud the way he shifts his boots now bogan bill was shearing rough and chance to cut a tit he stuck his leg in front at once and slew the you a bit he hurried up to get her through when close beside his shoot he saw a large and ancient shoe in mateship with a boot he thought that he'd be fine he couldn't turn the yo the more he wished the boss away the more he wouldn't go and bogan swore amen foley beneath his breath he swore and he was never known to pink so prettily before and bogan through his bristling scalp in his mind's eye could trace the cold sarcastic smile that lurked about the bosses face he cursed him with a silent curse in language known to few he cursed him from his boot right up and then down to his shoe but while he sure so mighty clean and while he screamed the tit he fancied there was something wrong about the boss's feet the boot grew unfamiliar and the odd shoe seemed to rye and slowly up the trouser went the tail of bogan's eye then swiftly to the features from a plattered green hide belt he'd have to ring a shed or two to feel as bogan felt for twas his green hand pick her up who wore a vacant look and bogan saw the boss outside consulting with his cook and bogan bill was hurt and mad to see that rouser about and bogan laid his woosly down and knocked that rouser out he knocked him right across the board he tumbled through the chute old learner fool said bogan bill to flash the boss's boot the rouser squints along the pins he squints along the chutes and gives his men the offers when they miss the boss's boots they have no time to straighten up they're too well bred to stare but when the boss is looking on they like to be aware the rouser has no soul to lose it's blast the rouser about and rip him through and kneel for tar and get the bill sheep out and take it with the scum at times or take it with the roots but pink them nice and pretty when you see the boss's boots end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Captain of the Push by Henry Lawson read for Libba Volkstar to org by Elaine Conway England as the night was falling slowly down on city town and bush from a slum in Jones's alley sloped the captain of the push and he scowled towards the north and he scowled towards the south and he hooked his little finger in the corners of his mouth then his whistle loud and shrill woke the echoes of the rocks and a dozen ghouls came sloping round the corners of the blocks there was naught to rouse the hangar yet the oath at each one's wall seemed less fit for publication than the one that went before for they spoke the gutter language with the easy flow that comes only to the man whose childhood knows the brothels and the slums then they spat in turns and halted and the one that came behind spitting fiercely on the pavement called on heaven to strike him blind let us first describe the captain bottle-shouldered pale and thin for he was the bow-idle of a Sidney at Larriken in his hat was most suggestive of the city where we live where the gallows tilt that no one savor Larriken can give and the coat a little shorter than the writer would desire showed a more or less uncertain portion of his strange attire that which tailors know as treasures known by him as blooming bags hanging loosely from his person, swept with tattered ends the flags and he hired a pointed stern post to the boots that peeped below which he laced up from the centre of the nail of his great toe and he wore his shirt and collet and the tie correctly wronged and I think his vest was shorter than should be in one so long and the captain crooked his finger at a stranger on the curb whom he qualified politely with an adjective and a verb and he begged the gory bleeders that they wouldn't interrupt till he gave an introduction it was painfully abrupt here's the bleeding push Bikofi here's a something from the bush strike me dirty wants to join us said the captain of the push said the stranger I am nothing but a bushy and a dance but I read about the bleeders in the weekly gas bag once sitting lonely in the Humpy when the wind began to whoosh how long to share the dangers and the pleasures of the push gosh I hate the swells and goodens I could burn them in their beds I am with you if you'll have me break their blazing heads now look here exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush now look here suppose a fella was to split upon the push would you lay for him and fetch him even if the traps were round would you lay him out and kick him to a jelly on the ground would you jump on the nameless kill or cripple him all both speak or else I'll speak the stranger answered my colonial oath now look here exclaimed the captain to the stranger from the bush now look here suppose the bleeders let you come and join the push would you smash a bleeding bobby if you got the blank alone would you break a swell or tinky split his garret with a stone would you have a mole to keep you like to swear off work for good yes my oath replied the stranger my colonial oath I would now look here exclaimed the captain to that stranger from the bush now look here before the bleeders let you come and join the push you must prove that you're a blazer you must prove that you have grit worthy of a gory bleeder you must show your form a bit take a rock and smash that window and the stranger nothing took the rock and smash the only muttered my colonial oath so they swore him in and found him sure of aim and light of heel and his only fault if any lain his excessive zeal he was good at throwing metal but we chronicle with pain as he jumped upon a victim damaging the watch and chain if the bleeders had secured yet the captain of the push threw a dozen oaths in favour of the stranger from the bush late next morning the captain rising horse and thirsty from his lair called the newly feathered bleeder but the stranger wasn't there quickly going through the pockets of his blooming bags he learned that the stranger had been through him for the stuff his mole had earned and the language that he muttered I should scarcely like to tell stars and notes of exclamation blank and dash would do as well in the night the captain simple woke the echoes of the rocks brought the gory bleeders sloping through the shades of the blocks and they swore the stranger's action was a blood escaping shame while they waited for the nameless but the nameless never came and the bleeders soon forgot him but the captain of the push still is laying around in ballast for the nameless from the bush and a poem this recording is in the public domain Billy's Square Affair by Henry Lawson read for Libbybox.org by Algy Pug Long Bill the captain of the push was tired of his estate and wished to change his life and win the love of something straight it was rumoured that the gory bees had heard Long Bill declare that he would turn respectable and wed a square affair he craved the kiss of innocence his spirit longed to rise the crimson streak his faithful peace grew hateful in his eyes and though in her entirety the crimson streak was there I grieved to state the crimson streak was not a square affair he wanted clothes a masher suit he wanted boots and hat his girl had earned a quid or two he wouldn't part with that and so he went to Brickfield Hill and from a draper there he shook the proper kind of togs to fetch a square affair Long Bill went to the barbers shop and had a shave and singe and from his narrow forehead combed his darling Mabel fringe Long Bill put on a square cut and he brushed his boots with care and roved about the gardens till he meshed a square affair she was a Tony servant girl from somewhere on the shore she dressed in style that suited Bill he could not wish for more while in her garless presence he had ceased to chew or swear he knew the kind of barrack that can fetch a square affair to thus desert his donor old was risky and a sin and would have served him right if she had caved his garret in the gory bleeders thought it too and warned him to take care in case the crimson streak got sent of Billy's square affair he took her to the stalls it was dear but Billy said, what odds he couldn't take his square affair amongst the crimson gods they wandered in the park at night and hugged each other there but ah, the crimson streak got wind of Billy's square affair the blank and space and stars she yelled the nameless crimson dash I'll smash the blanky crimson and his square affair I'll smash in short she drank and shrieked and tore her crimson hair and swore to murder Billy and to pound his square affair and so one summer evening as the day was growing dim she watched her bloke go out and foxed his square affair and him that night the park was startled by the shrieks that rent the air the streak had gone for Billy and for Billy's square affair the gory push had foxed they foxed her to the park and they of course were close at hand to see the bleeding lark a cop arrived in time to hear a gory bee declare go blammy he is a red streak fowl of Billy's square affair now Billy scowls about the rocks his manly beauty marred and Billy's girl upon her head is doing six months hard Billy's swivel eye is in a sling his heart is in despair and in the Sydney hospital lies Billy's square affair end of poem this recording is in the public domain he muttered as that broken nose he wiped upon his cap it's awful when the police has got a dairy on a chap I'm on his working cove as any bloke can see it's just because the police has got a dairy sir on me oh yes the legal gents can grin I say it ain't no joke it's cruel when the police has a dairy on a bloke why don't you go to work? he said he muttered, why don't you? your honour knows as well as me there ain't no work to do and when I try to find a job I'm shattered by a trap it's awful when the police has got a dairy on a chap I sighed and shed a tear that for that noble nature marred but ah the bench was rough on him and gave him six months hard he only said beyond the grave you're coppered up by jove there ain't no angel police to get a dairy on a cove end of poem this recording is in the public domain Rygy, Rygy by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Algy Pug Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers claim your rights with fire and steel Rygy, for the cursed tyrants crush you with a hire and a eel they would treat you worse than slaves they would treat you worse than brutes rise and crush the selfish tyrants crush them with your hobnail boots Rygy, Rygy, glorious toilers Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers awake, rise Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers tyrants come across the waves will you yield the rights of labour? will you? will you still be slaves? Rygy, Rygy, mighty toilers and revoke the rotten laws lo, your wives go out a washin' while you battle for the cause Rygy, Rygy, glorious toilers Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers awake, rise your glorious dawn is breaking lo, the tyrant trembles now he will starve as here no longer toilers will not bend or bow Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers rise, behold, revenge is near see the leaders of the people come and have a pint of beer Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers Rygy, Rygy, glorious toilers awake, rise lo, the poor are starved my brothers lo, our wives and children weep lo, our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers rise and break the tyrant's chain Marchy, Marchy, mighty toilers even to the battle plain Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers Rygy, Rygy, noble toilers awake, rise End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Ballad of Mabel Claire by Henry Lawson Read for LibriVox.org by Algy Pug You children of the land of gold I sing a song to you and if the jokes are somewhat old the main idea is new to be it sung by hut and tent where tall the native grows and understand the song is meant for singing through the nose it dwelt a hard old cockatoo on western hills far out where everything is green and blue except of course in drought a crimson anarchist was he he would other men in scorn it preached that every man was free and also equal-born he lived in his ancestral hut his missus wasn't there and there was no one with him but his daughter Mabel Claire her eyes and hair were like the sun her foot was like a mat her cheeks a trifle overdone she was a democrat a manly independence born among the trees she had she treated womankind with scorn and often cursed her dad she hated swells and shining lights for she had seen a few and she believed in women's rights she mostly got them too a stranger at the neighbouring run sojourned the squatter's guest he was unknown to anyone but like a swell was dressed he had an eyeglass to his eye a collar to his ears his feet were made to tread the sky his mouth was formed for sneers he wore the latest togery the loudest thing in ties it was generally reckoned he was something in disguise but who he was or whence he came was long unknown except unto the squatter who the name and noble secret kept and strolling in the noontide heat beneath the blinding glare this noble stranger chanced to meet the radiant Mabel Claire she saw it once he was a swell according to her lights but ah it is very sad to tell she met him oft of nights and strolling through a moonlit gorge she chatted all the while of Ingersoll and Henry George and Bradlaw and Carlisle in short he learned to love the girl and things went on like this until he said he was an earl and asked her to be his oh say no more Lord Callerney oh say no more she said oh say no more Lord Callerney I wish that I was dead my head is in a awful whirl the truth I dare not tell I am a democratic girl and cannot wed as well oh love he cried but you forget that you are most unjust it was not my fault that I was set within the upper crust he not the yarns the poets tell oh darling do not doubt the simple Lord can love as well as any rouse about for you I'll give my fortune up I'd go to work for you I'll put the money in the cup and drop the title too oh fly with me oh fly with me across the mountains blue oh fly with me oh fly with me that very night she flew and took the train and journeyed down across the range they sped until they came to Sydney town where shortly they were wed and still upon the western wild admiring Timster's tell our Mabel's father cursed his child for clearing with a swell what hails my bird this bridal night exclaimed Lord Callerney what hails my own this bridal night oh love confide in me oh now she said that I am yours you'll let me weep I must I did desert the people's cause to join the upper crust oh proudly smiled his lordship then his chimney potty floored look up my love and smile again for I am not a lord his eyeglass from his eye he tore the dicky from his breast and turned and stood his bride before a rouse about confessed unknown I've loved you long and I've loved you true as shearing in your governor's shed I learned to worship you I do not care for place or pelf for now my love I'm sure that you will love me for myself and not because I'm poor to prove your love I spent my check to buy this swell rig out so fling your arms about my neck for I'm a rouse about at first she gave a startled cry then safe from cares alarms she sighed a soul subduing sigh and sank into his arms he pawned the togs and homie took his bride in all her charms a proud old cockatoo received the pair with open arms along they lived the faithful bride the noble rouse about and if she wasn't satisfied she never let it out end of poem this recording is in the public domain Constable McCarthy's investigation by Henry Lawson read Philippa Vox.org by Elaine Conway England most unpleasantly adjacent to the haunts of lower orders stood a terrace in the city when the current year began and a notice indicated there were vacancies for boarders in the middle house and lodgings for a single gentleman now a singular observer could have seen but few attractions whether in the house or Mrs or the notice or the street but at last there came a lodger whose appearances and actions puzzled Constable McCarthy the policeman on the beat he the single gent was wasted almost to amaziation and his features were the palest that McCarthy ever saw and these indications pointing to a past of dissipation greatly strengthened the suspicions of the agent of the law he the lodger hang the pronoun seemed to like stormy weather when the elements in battle kept it up a little late yet it wandered in the moonlight when the stars were close together taking ghostly consolation in a visionary state he would walk the streets at midnight when the storm king raised his banner walk without his old umbrella wave his arms above his head all he'd fold them tight and mutter in a wild, disjointed banner while the town was wrapped in slumber that he should have been in bed said the Constable on duty sure, I wonder what his trade is and the Constable would watch him from the shadow of a wall but he never picked a pocket and he never costed ladies and the Constable was puzzled what to make of him at all now McCarthy had arrested more than one notorious dodger he had heard of men afflicted with the strangest kind of fads but he couldn't fix the station or the business of the lodger who at times would chum with catchers and at other times with cats and the Constable would often stand and wonder how the gory Chiyol the stranger got his living for he loathed the time away and he often sought a hillup and the sun went down in glory just as if he was a mourner at the burial of the day Mack had noticed that the lodger did a mighty lot of smoking and could stow away a longan never winking so he could and McCarthy once at midnight came upon the lodger poking round about suspicious alleys at the common house he stood yet the Constable had seen him in a class above suspicion seen him welcomed with a fusion by a dozen Tony gents seen him driving in the buggy of a rising politician through the gateway of the members Tony private residence and the Constable of duty had observed the lodger slipping done a lane to where the river opened on the ocean wide where he'd stand for hours gazing at the distant anchored shipping but he never took his coat off so it wasn't suicide for the Constable had noticed that a man he spilled with loathing for his selfish fellow creatures and the evil things that be will for some mysterious reason shed a portion of his clothing if he takes his first and final plunge into eternity and McCarthy once at midnight be it said to his abasement at his feet and climbed a railing of considerable height just to watch the lodger's shadow on the curtain of his casement while the little room was lighted in the listening hours of night now at first the shadow hinted that the substance had indicting now it indicated toothache or the headache and again it would exaggerate the gestures Dipsomaniac fighting those original conceptions of a whiskey sodden brain then the Constable retreating scratched his head and muttered so a one of me can understand it would oil keep me eye on him devil take him and his tantrums he's a lunatic, begara or if he was optimistic he'd be sure to dash the game but McCarthy wasn't easy for he had a vague suspicion that his game was being plotted and he thought the matter down till his mind was pretty certain that the business was sedition and the man in league with others sought to overthrow the crown but in spite of observation Mac received no information and was forced to stay inactive being puzzled for a charge that the lodger was a madman seemed the only explanation though the house could scarcely harbour such a lunatic at large his appearance fell to warrant apprehension as a vagrant though it was getting very shabby as the Constable could see but McCarthy in the meantime hoped to catch him in a flagrant breach of peace or the intention to commit a felony for digression there is leisure and it is the writer's pleasure just to pause a while and ponder on a painful legal act being forced to say in sorrow at a line of doubtful measure that there's nothing so elastic as the cruel vagrant act now McCarthy knew his duty and was brave as any line but he dreaded being landed in an influential bog as the chances were he would be if the man he had his eye on was a person of importance who was travelling in Cork wanted to sleep and over worry seemed to tell upon McCarthy he was thirsty more than ever but his appetite resigned he was previously reckoned as a jolly chappend hearty but the mystery was flying like a mantin on his mind though he tried his best he couldn't get a hold upon the lodger for the latter's antecedents weren't known to the police they considered that the devil was a dark and artful dodger who was scheming under Cabot for the downfall of the peace it was a simple explanation though McCarthy didn't know it which with half his penetration he might easily have seen for the object of his dangerous suspicions was a poet who was not so widely famous as he thought he should have been and the constable grew thinner till one morning little Dharaman had the sword of revelation that was leaping from its sheath he alighted on some verses in the columns of the Freyman with the Christian name and surname of the lodger underneath no, McCarthy and the poet are his brother his brother or at least his brothers should be and they very often meet on the lonely block at midnight and they wink at one another disappearing down the byway of a shanty in the street and the poet's name you're asking while the ground is very tender you must wait until the public puts the guilt upon the name till a glorious sorrow drowning and perhaps a final bender heralds his triumphant entrance to the thunder halls of fame end of poem this recording is in the public domain At the tug of war by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Philip Lawrence your short story teller it was in a tug of war where I the governor's hope and pride stepped proudly on the platform as the ringer on my side old dad was in his glory there it gave the old man joy to fight a passage through the crowd and barrack for his boy a friend came up and said to me put out your muscles John and pull them to eternity your governor's looking on I paused before I grasped the rope and glanced around the place and foremost in the waiting crowd I saw the old man's face my mates were strong and plucky chaps but very soon I knew that our opponents had the weight and strength to pull them through the boys were losing surely and defeat was very near when high above the mighty roar I heard the old man cheer I felt my muscles swelling when the old man cheered for me I felt as though I'd burst my heart or gain the victory I shouted now together and a steady strain replied and with a mighty heave I helped to beat the other side oh how the old man shouted in his wild excited joy I thought he'd burst his boiler then a cheering for his boy perhaps oh how they cheered me while the girls all smiled so kind they praised me a little dreaming how the old man pulled behind he barracks for his boy no more his grave is old and green and sons have grown up around me since he vanished from the scene but when the cause is worthy where I fight for victory in fancy still I often hear the old man cheer for me end of poem this recording is in the public domain here's luck by Henry Lawson read PhilippeVox.org by Elaine Conway England old time is tramping close today you hear his blutches fall a mighty change is on the way and God protect us all some dust will fly from berry coats at least it's been declared I'm glad that women has the votes but just a trifle scared I'm just a trifle scared for why the women mean to rule it makes me feel like days gone by when I was caned at school the days of men is nearly dead of double moons and stars they'll soon put out our pipes to said and close the public bars no more will take a glass of ale we pushed with care and strife and chuckle home with that old tale we used to tell the wife we'll laugh and joke and sing no more with jolly berry tums and shout his luck we're waiting for the luck that never comes did we prohibit swirling tea clean out common sense or legislate on gossiping across a backyard fence did we prohibit bustles or the hoops when they was here the women never think of this they want to stop our beer the tracker life is dry enough and crossed with many a rut but oh we'll find it long and rough when all the pubs is shut and all the pubs is shut and gone the doors we used to seek and we go toiling thirsting on through Sundays all the week for since the days when pubs was inns in years gone past and far for sinful souls have drowned their sins and sorrows at the bar and though at times it led to crimes and debt and such complaints I scarce dare think about the time when all mankind is saints it would make the bones of Bakker sleep and break his coffin lid and Burns's ghost would wail and weep as Bobby never did but let the preachers preach in style and rave and rant and buck I rather guess they'll hear a while the old war cry hears luck the world might wobble round the sun and all the ranks go bung but pipes all smoke and liquor run while old Langsine is sung while men are driven through the mill and flinty times is struck they'll find a private entrance still hears luck old man hears luck and a poem this recording is in the public domain The Men Who Come Behind by Henry Lawson read for LibraVox.org by Elaine Conway England there's a class of men and women who are always on their guard cunning, treacherous, suspicious feeling softly grasping hard brainy yet without the courage to forsake the beaten track cautiously they feel their way behind a bolder spirit back if you save a bit of money and you start a little stall say an oyster shop for instance where there wasn't one before when the shop begins to pay you and the rent is off your mind you will see another started by a chap that comes behind so it is and so it might have been my friend with me and you when a friend of both and neither interferes between the two they will fight like fiends forgetting in their passion mad and blind that the row who is mostly started are the folk who come behind they will stick to you like sin, will while your money comes and goes but they'll leave you when you haven't got a shilling in your clothes you may get some help above you but you'll nearly always find that you cannot get assistance from the men who come behind there are many far too many in the world of pros and rhyme always looking for another's footsteps on the sounds of time journalistic imitators are the meanest of my kind and the grandest themes are hackneyed by the pens that come behind if you strike a novel subject write it up and do not fail there will rhyme and prose about it to your very own is still as they've raved about the region that the wattlebars perfume to the reader cursed the bushman and the stink of wattle bloom they will follow in your footsteps while you're groping for the light but they'll run to get before you when they see you're going right and they'll trip you up and balk you in their blind and greedy heat like a stupid pup that hasn't learned to trail behind your feet take your loads of sin and sorrow and more energetic backs go and strike across the country where there are not any tracks and we fancy that the subject could be further treated here but we'll leave it to be hackneyed by the fellows in the rear and a poem this recording is in the public domain the day when we went swimming by Henry Lawson read fullyberfox.org by Elaine Conway England the breezes waved the silver grass waist high along the siding and to the creek when the air could pass three boys on a bareback riding beneath the sheoaks in the bend the waterhole was brimming do you remember yet old friend the times we went in swimming the days we played the wag from school joys shared but paid for singly the air was hot the water cool and naked boys are kingly with mud for soap the sun to dry a well-planned lie to stay us and dust well rubbed on neck and face lest cleanliness betray us and you'll remember farmer cuts they're scarcely for his bounty he leased a 40 acre block and thought he owned the county a farmer of the old world school that men grew hard and grim in he drew his water from the pool that we preferred to swim in and do you mind when Dan the creek his angry way he wended a green hide cart whip in his hand for our young backs intended three naked boys upon the sand half buried and half sunning three startled boys without their clothes across the paddocks running we've had some scares but we looked blank when resting there and chumming one glanced by chance along the bank and saw the farmer coming and home impressions linger yet of cups of sorrow brimming I hardly think that we'll forget the last day we went swimming end of poem this recording is in the public domain the old bark school by Henry Lawson read for liberfox.org by Elaine Conway England it was built of bark and poles and the floor was full of holes where each leak in rainy weather made a pool and the walls with mostly cracks lined with calico and sacks there was little need for windows in the school then we rode to school and back by the rugged gully track on the old grey horse that carried three or four and he looked so very wise that he licked the master's eyes every time he put his head in at the door he had a run with cobb and co that grey leader let him go there were men as node the brand upon his hide and as node it on the course funeral service good old horse when we burnt him in the gully where he died and the master thought the same it was from island that he came where the tanks are full all summer and their feed is simply grand and the joker then in vogue said his lessons with a broke it was unconscious imitation let the reader understand and we learnt the world in scraps from some ancient dingy maps long discarded by the public schools in town and as nearly every book dated back to captain cook audiography was somewhat upside down it was in the book and so well at that we'd let it go for we never would believe that print could lie and we all learnt pretty soon that when we came at it noon the sun is in the south part of the sky and island that was known from the coastline to Athlo we got little information we the land that gave us birth say that captain cook was killed and was very likely grilled and the natives of New Holland are the lowest race on earth and a woodcut in its place the same degraded race seemed a lot more like a camel than the black fellows we knew Jimmy Bullock with the rest scratched his head and gave it best at his faith was sadly shaken by a bobtailed kangaroo but the bark school is gone and the spot is stood upon is a cattle camp in winter where the curlews cry is heard there's a brick school on the flat but a schoolmate teaches that for about the time they built it our old master was transferred but the bark school comes again with exchanges across the plain with the outback advertiser at my fancy roams at large when a reed of passing stock of a western mob or flock with James Bullock, Grey or Henry Dale in charge and I think how Jimmy went from the old bark school content with his education finished with his pack horse after him and perhaps if I were back I would take the south same track for I wish my learning ended when the master finished Jim end of chapter 59 Trouble on the Selection by Henry Lawson read for LibreVox.org by Elaine Conway England you lazy boy you're here at last you must be wooden-legged now are you sure the gate is fast and all the slip rails pegged and all the milkers at the yard the calves all in the pen he don't want polis carved to suck his mother dry again and did you mend the broken rail and make it firm and neat I suppose you want that brindle steer all night among the wheat and if he finds the loose end patch he'll stuff his belly full he'll eat till he gets blown on that and busts like Rhine's bull old spot is lost you drive me mad I feel upon my soul she might be in the boggy swamps or down a diggers hole you needn't talk you never looked you'll find her if you choose instead of poking possum lobs and hunting kangaroos how came your boots as wet as muck try to drown the ants why don't you take your blutches off good lord he tore his pants your father's coming home tonight you'll catch it hot you'll see now go and wash your filthy face and come and get your tea end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Professional Wanderer by Henry Lawson read for LibriVox.org by Philip Lawrence your short story teller when you've knocked about the country been away from home for years when the past by distance softened it fills your eyes with tears you are haunted off wherever or however you may roam by a fancy that you ought to go and see the folks at home you forget the family quarrels the little things that used to jar and you think of how they'll worry how they wonder where you are you will think you serve them badly and your own part you'll condemn and it strikes you that you'll surely be a novelty to them for your voice has somewhat altered and your face has somewhat changed and your views of men and matters over wider fields have ranged then it's time to save your money or to watch it how it goes then it's time to get a Gladstone and a decent suit of clothes then it's time to practice daily with a hairbrush under comb till you drop in unexpected on the folks and friends at home when you've been at home for some time and the novelty's worn off and old chums no longer caught you and your friends begin to scoff when the girls no longer kiss you crying Jack, how you've changed when you're stale to your relations and their manner seems estranged when the old domestic quarrels round the table thrice a day make it too much like the old times make you wish you'd stayed away when, in short, you've spent your money in the fullness of your heart and your clothes are getting shabby then it's high time to depart end of poem this recording is in the public domain A Little Mistake by Henry Lawson read fullyberfox.org by Elaine Conway England To see yarn I heard of a new chum trap the edge of the never never where the dead men lie and the black men lie and the bushmen lie forever it was the custom still with the local blacks to catch in the old together they had less respect for our feelings then and more respect for the weather the trooper said to the sergeant's wife sure I wouldn't seem unpleasant but there's women and children about the place and bar in a lady's present there's old King Billy with never a stitch for a month may the drought cremate him bar the one we put in his to herty head where his old Queen Mary bait him God give her strength and a peaceful reign though she flies in a bit of a passion if only one hints that her stoyle and lurks are a trifle behind the fashion there's two of the boys by the stable now either powers or teach the varmints to come with nought but a shirt apiece and with dirt for their nether garments hold on ye blaggards how dare ye dare to come with insight of their houses I'll give you a warning all for once and a couple of old pair of trousers they took the pants as a child a toy the constable's words beguiling a smile of something besides their joy as they took their departures smiling as that very day when the sun was low two black fellows came to the station they were filled with a carriage of Queensland drum and bursting with indignation the constable noticed with growing ire they were apparently dressed in a hurry and their language that day I am sorry to say mostly consisted of plurry the constable heard and he wished himself back in the land of the box and the ditches you plurry big tight britches policemen for what you give it on missus' britches and this was a case I am bound to confess where civilisation went under had one of the gins been less modest in dress he'd never have made a blunder and he let the mole be duly made known and hereafter signed and attested we should place more reliance on that which is shown and less upon what is suggested and a poem this recording is in the public domain A Study in the Nood by Henry Lawson read PhilippaVolks.org by Elaine Conway A sailor named Grace was seen by the guard of a goods train lying close to the railway line near Warner Town SA in a nude condition he was unconscious and had lain there three days dream one of which the glass registered 110 in the shade Grace expressed surprise that the train did not pick him up daily paper in consequence the muse he was bare we don't want to be rude his condition was owing to drink they say his condition was nude which amounts to the same thing we think we mean his condition we think it was a naked condition or nude which amounts to the same thing we think and covered he lay on the grass that shriveled and shrunken he stayed three hot summer days while the glass was 110 in the shade we nearly remarked that he laid but that was bad grammar we thought it does sound bucolic we think it smacks the barnyard a farming of pullets in short and he did he lay on the dirt beside him a part of his dress a tattered and threadbare old shirt was raised as a flag of distress on a stick like a flag of distress reversed we mean that the tail end was up half masked on a stick an evident flag of distress perhaps in his dreams he pursued bright visions of heavenly bliss and artists who study the nude never saw such a study as this the luggage went by and the guard looked out and his eyes fell on grice we fancy he looked at him hard we think that he looked at him twice they say if the telegram's true when he woke up he wondered good lord why the engine man didn't he too why the train didn't take him aboard and now by the case of poor grice we think that a daily express should travel with sunshades and eyes and a look out for flags of distress and a poem this recording is in the public domain a word to Texas Jack by Henry Lawson read for librafox.org by Elaine Conway, England Texas Jack you are amusing by Lord Harry how I laughed when I see a rig and saddle with its bulwarks fore and aft holy smoke in such a saddle how the dickens can you fall why I seen a gal ride bareback with no bridal on at all gosh so help me strike me barmy if a bitter scenery like to you in all your rig out on the earth I ever see how I'd like to see a bushman use your fixings Texas Jack on the remnant of a saddle he can ride to Halland back why I hear a mother screaming when her kid went tossing by riding bareback on a bugger that had murder in his eye what you come to learn the natives how to squat on horses back learn the cornstalk riding blazes what you're giving us Jack learn the cornstalk what the flaming jumped up where's my country gone why the cornstalk's mother often rides the day before he's born you may talk about your riding in the city bold and free talk a riding in the city Texas Jack where'd you be when the stock horse snorts and bunches all his quarters in a hump and the saddle climbs a sapling and the horseshoes split a stump no, before you teach the native you must ride that full up a gum or down a gully nigh as steep as any wall you must swim the roaring darlin when the flood is at its height bearing down the stock and stations to the great Australian bite you can't count the bulls and bison that you copped with your lasso but a stout old mile bullet perhaps I'd learn you something new you'd better make your will and leave your papers neat and trim before you make arrangements for the lassoing of him ear in your horse is cat's meat bit in fate for sit galutes and your saddles turn to laces like we put in butcher boots and you say you're death on Indians we've got something in your line if you think you're fitting's equal to the likes of Tommy Ryan take your carcass up to Queensland where the alligators chew and the carpet snake is handy with his tail for a lasso ride across the hazy regions where the lonely emus wail and you'll find the blackle track you're while you're looking for his trail you can track you without stopping for a thousand miles or more come again that he will show you where you spit the ear before and you'd best be mighty careful you'll be sorry you came here when you're skewered to the fakements of your saddle with a spear when the boomerang is sailing in the air may heaven help ya it will cut your head off going and come back again and scalp ya Pierre says poet and his Yankee I will greet you Texas Jack which isn't no ill-feeling that is getting up my back but I won't see this land crowded by each yank and British cuss who takes it in his head to come as civilising us so if you feel like shooting now don't let your pistol cough the government is very free at choking fellas off and though on your great continent there's misery in the towns and not a few untitled lords and kings without their crowns I will admit your countrymen is bursted big and free and great on equal rights of men and great on liberty I will admit your fathers punched the gory tyrant's head but then we've got our heroes too the diggers that is dead the plucky men of Ballarat who towed the scratch right well and broke the nose of tyranny and made his peepers swell the Yankee libs gold trusses in the roaring days gone by and doubling up his dirty fist a blacker bonny eye so when it comes to riding moats or hoisting out the chow or sticking up for labours rights we don't want showing how then come to learn us cricket in the days of long ago and Hanlon come from Canada to learn us how to row and doctors come from Frisco just to learn us how to skate and pokes from all the lands on earth to learn us how to fight and when they go as like or not refined were taken in they've left behind no laning as they've carried off our tin and a poem this recording is in the public domain The Grog and Grumble Steeplechase by Henry Lawson read PhilippaFox.org by Elaine Conway England twist the coastline and the border lay the tan of Grog and Grumble in the days before the Bushmen were a dull and heartless drudge and they say the local meeting was a drunken roughen tumble and his said the city talent very often called to Tata in the Grog and Grumble sportsmen and retired with broken heads for the fortune life and safety of the Grog and Grumble starter mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds Pat Madelma was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer which he called the quickest Stepper, Twix the Darling and the Sea and I think it's very doubtful if the stomach troubled Dreamer ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery for his points were most decided from his end to his beginning he had eyes of different colour and his legs they wasn't mates Pat McDelma said he always came within flip of winning and his sigh had come from England and his dam was from the States Friends would argue with McDelma and they said he was in error to put up his horse the Screamer for he'd lose in any case and they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror was regarded as the winner of the coming steeple chase but he said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining and irrelevantly mentioned that he knew the time of day so he rose in their opinion it was noticed that the training of the Screamer was conducted in a dark mysterious way while the day arrived in glory it was a day of jubilation with careless hearted bushmen for a hundred miles around and the rum and beer and whiskey came in wagons from the station and the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground Judge Ma'ad with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle took his dangerous position on the bargain sapling stand he was what the local stiggins used to speak of as a weasel of wrath and heater bludgeon that he carried in his hand off you go the starter shouted as Dan fell a stupid jockey off they started in disorder left the jockey where he lay and they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky to the pumping of the Screamer could be heard a mile away but he kept his legs and galloped he was used to rugged courses and he lumbered down the gully to the ridge began to quake and he plowed along the siding raising earth till other horses and the riders too were blinded by the dust cloud in his wake on the ruck he'd struggled slowly they were much surprised to find him close a beam of Holy Terror so long the flat they tore even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him while in more divided splinters do the shattered wells before terror dead heat they were shouting terror but the Screamer hung out nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung and Maderma shouted loudly put your tongue out put your tongue out and the Screamer put his tongue out and he won by half a leak and a poem this recording is in the public domain But what's the use? by Henry Lawson wrote for LibreFox.org by Elaine Conway England But what's the use of writing Bush though editors demand it for city folk and farming folk can never understand it they're blind to see what the bushman sees the best with eyes shut tightest out where the sun is hottest and the stars are most and brightest the crows at sunrise flopping round where some poor life has run down the pair of emus trotting from the lonely tank at sundown their sneaky heads well up and eyes well out for man's maneuvers and feathers bobbing round behind like fringes round improvers the swagman tramping across the plane good lord there's nothing sadder except the dog that slopes behind his master like a shadow the turkey tail to scare the flies the water bag and Billy the nose bag getting cruel light the traveller getting silly the plane that seems to jacaruse like gently sloping rises the shrubs and tufts that smiles away but magnified in sizes the track that seems risen up or else seems gently sloping and just a hint of kangaroos way out across the open the joy and hope the swagman feels returning after shearing or after six months tramp out back he strikes the final clearing his weary spirit breathes again his aching legs seem limber when to the east across the plane he spots the darling timber but what's the use of writing Bush the editors demanded for city folk and cockatoos they do not understand it they're blind to see what the whaler sees the best with eyes shut tightest at where Australia's widest and the stars are most and brightest and of poem this recording is in the public domain Enter first is popular and humorous by Henry Lawson